Cold Hands
by tartan robes
Summary: "She knew what had bent her mother's smile." Glimpses into the past - and present - life of Elsie Hughes.
1. Scotland

_i._

Before the house smelt of alcohol and tasted of iron, they used to compliment her mother on her smile.

"So lovely," the village women would say, "crooked – but lovely."

From her side, Elsie Hughes never said a word.

She knew what had bent her mother's smile.

_ii._

On Thursday nights – it's always Thursday night – she tugs Anice's hand.

"Come on, Ann, we better sleep."

"But I want to –"

"_Come on_, Ann."

She drags her down the hall. The house is dark and still, save her parent's bedroom. When they pass, she can feel the red glow of candles and the long shadow of her mother, sitting upright over the blankets. A knot twists in her chest. She shouldn't leave her there – but Ann's hand is squirming, desperate to break free of hers. She has to get Ann in their room. It's her responsibility.

She shuts the door behind them (she'd lock it if she could) and sits down on the floor. Ann sits with her, her five-year-old feet so tiny compared to hers, her limbs so skinny, frail. She's only two years older than Ann, but, sometimes, it seems to be a world of difference.

They make shadow puppets on the wall – dogs chase rabbits and eagles – until she hears the door slam and she blows the light out.

The house is void of light and full of sound. Blankets rustle. A girl is ushered into her bed; her sister stays still, sits by her side. Floorboards creak, fists beat against the walls. A shadow – blacker than black – extends underneath their door, reaches in, neither breathe. But the shadow is fleeting; the walls vibrate instead and Elsie can feel him staggering from side to side, hears a faraway door slide open, knows his face is bathed in red light.

This is when the stories begin.

Carefully, a candle is lit. The only book she owns is lifted from a stool and she sits carefully next to her sister, reads in a whisper. She hopes, always, that her words are only noises to be heard.

But, on Thursdays, the fantasies are always matched by a rhythm. A steady drumbeat, hard and sharp and cold.

Elsie Hughes is afraid of no sound but it.

_iii._

When Ann is asleep and the drums are still (the only beat now is that of him snoring), she creeps to the door. There's a light on in the kitchen. She walks without sound, careful not to be noticed, careful not to be there. If she is a ghost, she knows, she cannot ever be hurt.

Her mother is sitting, facing the window. The light is dim but she can see the swollen ridge around her eyes, the blood on her lip. Her mother cries without blinking (though not once, ever, has she screamed.)

Her mother turns her face, but Elsie no longer recognizes it. Their eyes have met, but it's a stranger staring back. Who is this woman? She wonders. Who is this woman with a face full of mountains and valleys? She longs for the even complexion of her mother, for her symmetry.

The woman holds out her hands, summoning her.

"Elsbeth, Elsbeth," she whispers in the dark, hands shaking over her daughter's but never holding, "you should be asleep now, Elsie."

She knows she's too old to sit on her mother's lap, but she lets the woman lift her all the same, lets her arms hover over her back. She rests her head against her neck. The woman still breathes, even and slow, like her mother did. The woman still breathes – that's the most important part.

"You shouldn't be up now, Elsie," her mother's voice is as shaky as her grip.

"You shouldn't be seeing this."

But she doesn't send her daughter off to bed, doesn't scold her.

Her mother is not a woman of great character – not any more.

Her father beat the _no _out of her.

_iv._

If she follows the rules, nothing back will happen. If she follows the rules, her rules, he won't hurt her.

The rules will keep her safe.

_v._

In the village, the girls dance around the lights. When they catch the eyes of boys, they group, merge, and, collectively, the giant shadow-girl shrieks. Off to the side, Elsie braids Ann's hair. Her sister is bathed in the glow of the fire, feet dancing, kicking at invisible chains. She wants to shout and dance and laugh like the rest of them. Ann will never – or so Elsie hopes – be as rigid, as stiff as her. Her, with movements stiff and refined, as though her every limb was pulled tight by strings, her life a corset.

The girls have congregated together again. Elsie sees all of their smiles, but none of their faces. Their hands reach out for her sister's, but she tightens her grip on her shoulder, tugs slightly at the unfinished braid.

"Not now Ann," she says, "I'm not done."

""But I want to –"

"Not now."

The girls stare at them, wide grins and wider eyes.

_Don't you want to dance? _The shadow-girl asks.

Elsie Hughes looks away, shoulders stiffen. She says nothing, braids hair.

_Don't you know how to scream? _

Eyes meet eyes. For the first time, she feels the warmth of the fire on her face. It hurts.

_No, _she says.

She forgot how to scream long ago.

(It didn't matter. No one ever heard.)

_vi._

Some nights, Ann is careless. She forgets her chores and remembers, instead, a village boy with blue eyes and hair like copper. When she sees them together, her sister leaning over the fence, dangerously close to his face, she is always sharp.

"_Ann!_"

And no matter what faces her sister makes, she never argues. Elsie's authority is never questioned, not by any of the women in the family.

When Ann gets careless, she is always careful to do whatever chores the girl forgets. It all has to be perfect before _he _comes through the doorway.

But Ann is not the only one with suitors. Sometimes he – a tall boy with broad shoulders – comes by the barn door. His shadow is great and she loathes him for leaning against the door frame, his limbs spreading across the exit. (There must always be an exit. There must always be a way out.)

"Can't you see," she mutters, "I'm busy?"

"Do you ever take a break?"

"My chores won't get done if I don't."

"Hey, relax –"

His hand grabs hers. She freezes instantly, tense under his hold. Arms jerk up, closer to her face.

He stands, still as a statue, just like her. And for a moment, there is only gold. The gold of the straw on the ground and the gold of the dust in the air, lit into sparks in the light. There is no breath, no words, just the colour.

Her sleeve has fallen, and in the half-light of the barn, he can see the bracelet of purple and brown around her wrist. Anyone could.

He lets go and she tugs at the fabric, straightens her dress.

"Are you all right?" He says, looking up at her from the tops of his eyes though he's heads above her, cautious.

"I told you already," her voice as stiff as her back, "I'm _busy_."

_vii._

Her mother passes away when she's sixteen.

She never saw her face; they covered it quickly, buried it under a colourless sheet.

It doesn't matter, Elsie doubts she would have recognized the woman anyway.

(Still, she cried all the same. Thinking, maybe, they should have held the funeral years earlier – and then crying all the more for that thought.)

_viii._

But after her mother, the shadows are more dangerous and the doors slam louder. She does all the things her mother used to (and then the things the woman – who spoke like her mother but wore the face of a stranger – did after her), but is always careful to be done before the storm hurls itself back through the door, smelling of beer and slurring thunder.

_ix._

Some nights, she holds a match up to her wrist and wonders if they are strangers too.

_x._

On her seventeenth birthday, she strips the house bare, leaves only the bones.

She takes what money she can find, packs what little she has – and takes Ann with her. (This time, her sister doesn't protest, doesn't struggle against her.)

They walk until their feet are sore, but neither are strangers to pain.

They walk until her mother's name in a blur in the distance, the storm only a shadow, pushed back into the far reaches of the horizon. They walk until a train scoops them both into its arms. (They asked her where she wanted to go and she had wanted to say _anywhere, everywhere._ Instead, she had said _Lancashire._) They're pushed between seat cushions and veils of smoke, but it feels more comfortable than sleeping in a rotting room.

Ann stares out the window, but Elsie refuses to look back. In her mind, she can feel it growing smaller. All of it – and she hopes, one day, it will disappear completely.

When Ann becomes restless and bored, she opens up their one book and reads to her again. This time, for the first time, in daylight.

She doesn't notice the way her wrist lock against the worn the cover, the slight tremble in her fingers.

This time, for the first time, she pays attention to the story and not just the words, the sounds.

This time, she laughs at the jokes.

* * *

><p><em>I meant to start another project - instead, this happened. This chapter isn't the happiest, but I hope I've done the events justice.<br>_


	2. Lancashire

_i._

Anice feels out of place.

She practices English phrases, clips her accent, changes the way she does her hair. They sit together, in the tiniest room the inn has to offer, and Elsie watches her sister turn her head in the mirror (cracked, damaged on the train) and purse her lips. (In her lap, her fingers twitch, longing to play with her sister's hair. But that's a game for girls – and neither of them are girls anymore.)

Elsie would be lying if she said she didn't feel out of place too.

But she thinks of the girl by the fire, back when she still held her sister's hair, and knows the feeling isn't an unfamiliar one.

Anice is going to do well here, she decides as her sister's hands adjust and readjust again. (She notes – with relief – how pure and clean her wrists are, the symmetry in Ann's face.) Anice is going to do well here. She'll make sure of it.

But _she'll_ amount to something too.

She has to.

_ii. _

It's the biggest house in the area, but it's still not very large. Not compared to the great houses the other maids whisper about, but, still, certainly grander than anything she's ever been in before. Somehow, the estate comforts her. Always someone around the corner, always a light on, always chatter. She doesn't feel lonely in this house, doesn't feel intimidated either. The finery doesn't impress her, not when they leave it there, lying about the house. The things that are truly important, she knows, you keep locked up and hidden.

No, this is a house of rules and procedure. A measured way to fluff the pillows and a planned second to pull the blinds. She revels in them, memorizes them, perfects them.

She belongs in a house like this.

_iii.  
><em>  
>She sleeps next to a girl that isn't Ann now, but the bed still feels the same. The Head Housemaid, Rose, is a light sleeper, but Elsie is lighter. She wakes up in the night, imaginary shadows passing under their door, and can't sleep when it's raining. The water runs down their windowpane, taps violently beside her, begs her to let it in. So she twists over in the bed, away from the window and facing the door. She has always slept facing the door; it's safer that way.<p>

Rose is nice; Elsie thinks her rather like a bird. A few years older than her and all flutter and chirp. Rose sings through the house when the family is out, dusts and strips beds all to a melody. She makes jokes sometimes or looks at Elsie from across the table, raising a brow when the cook says something she ought not to. For her part, Elsie never laughs. She doesn't have it in her. (She supposes later, all those looks were offers of friendship; things she overlooked between all the china and silver and dust.)

The footmen find Rose nice too. They smile and whisper to her and she laughs back, runs her hand over their shoulders. It makes Elsie uncomfortable. The sort of feeling that pulls at your ribs, sucks your chest in tight.

Not as uncomfortable, however, as when they look at her.

"Ever been to the attic, Elsbeth?"

"Why, pray tell, would I have?"

"I'm just wondering if you want to see it is all."

"I'm just wondering if you have a _job _to do."

It's not her place to tell them off; that's a housekeeper's job or even Rose's, someone more important and experienced than her. But, at night, when the shadows pass under her door (and she no longer knows if their real or not), she can't help but think it might be theirs.

She clutches her sheets tighter.

_iv. _

Her sister gets a job in a smaller house, though her skills are sub par. Elsie thinks, with a horrible knot in her throat, that she would never be able to hire her, were she someone more important. Not on the grounds of finesse or accomplishment, anyway. She tries to teach Anice more, better her, but her sister only waves her hand.

"Els," she says, hand hovering just above her shoulder, but not quite touching. It doesn't need to; the motion freezes Elsie instantly, quiets her. "Els, _this is our break_. I'm here to be with you, not worry about my job."

Anice orders another cup of tea. Elsie wonders if she has the money for it.

"Besides, I don't intend on being in service forever."

Something in Elsie's face must have betrayed her confusion.

"Surely, you want to get married, don't you?"

It's the dream, isn't it? The thing all the young ladies fancy. A husband and a few children and a farm, probably; what else do men of her class do? It does sound rather nice, she'll admit. It sounds simple and old, comforting like a child's blanket. (Not that she ever had one herself.) If she got married there would be to take of (there will always be people to take of), but people to take care of you as well.

"Well, I'd need another willing participant before I could consider it," she mutters.

_v. _

In her third year, Joe Burns asks her to go the fair.

A farmer's son. She can tell by his stance and his sandpaper hands. Not that she'd ever touch them, but she can see the scars and roughness. He has the beginnings of a beard and the end of smile on his face. He looks nice enough, but she knows better.

"If my sister put you up to this," she says, looking at him though the backdoor, "you really shouldn't waste your time."

"I –"

"And if she paid you, it would be kindness if you gave her the money back."

And then she shuts the door in his face.

She knows better than to go to the fair with anyone.

_vi. _

She didn't go in her first, second, or third year, but in her fourth she finds herself inhaling smoke and sugar.

She left after all the rest of them had, not interested in trailing behind Rose and just ahead, out of reach, of the footmen. They can do what they will, so long as they're out of her sight (and she, most importantly, is out of theirs). She drifts from stall to stall, resting at the ring toss, eying the prizes spread out along the board. She has no use for any of them, and yet –

A hoops whizzes past her, makes a perfect landing.

"We have a winner!"

She turns as the man behind the counter picks up the brooch, hands it to the victor.

Joe Burns grins at her, tips his hat.

"It's rude to show off," she says, trying to stifle the smile on her face.

"It's rude to slam the door in a boy's face," he beams at her.

She has no quip for that, but doesn't need one. He's extended his hand, offers her the pin, "Here, a peace offering."

When she hesitates, he adds, "It's not as though I'll wear it."

And so takes it from his hands, fingers careful not to touch his.

"You ever been to the fair before?" He asks her and when she shakes her head, "Might I show you around?"

Her fingers curl over the tiny brooch. He offers her his arm, but she hesitates again, refuses it.

Still, she spends the night walking near him, listening to him talk. Near him, not next to him. Never that close.

_vii. _

Every first break is for Ann and every second is for Joe, when he can make it to the village. (But he always does, never misses her.)

It's Ann's turn now to tell her stories. Her cast, though, is always the same. A charming, well meaning, though slightly clumsy heroine. Her unrewarding (and here Elsie's features always purse) work and undeserving employers. And then, a new character, a man. Tall and handsome and a lover of poetry. Elsie stirs her tea carefully, wonders how much is fact and how much is fiction.

With Joe, on the other hand, there isn't so much speaking. They walk a lot. Her eyes always fixed on the horizon and his on the sky – or, when he thinks she's deep in thought, her. It's the sort of look she can only see out of the corner of her eyes, one she'd never see head on. Something small and shy that makes her bite down on her lip, as though it could suppress the colour growing in her cheeks. Sometimes she looks back at him in the same way, though she's sure he never sees.

He tries to take her hand sometimes, but always, always she pulls away first. Instinct, automatic. The response is a mechanical one.

Until the one day, he catches her before she can escape. He holds her hand in hers and she finds her skin has been swapped for stone, her fingers so still. His own encircle hers, try to bend back one of her fingers, but it's so stiff it won't budge. And then he looks at her, concerned or confused or maybe both.

He kisses her hand, lets it fall from his grasp.

And then, together, they let the moment fall from their memories.

_viii. _

Ann lets her braid her hair again before the wedding.

She stands behind her sister, admiring her face in the mirror. Anice was always the prettier one, or so Elsie thought. Not in features alone, but in something she could only describe (loathe as she was to use the word) as her _aura_. Some sort of innocence that someone preserved from her childhood, that _she _preserved she allows herself to think. In other room, a man is adjusting his suit. She thinks of all the things to come for her sister and prays she's done her well.

(And then, she thinks of a thunderstorm, lets it howl in the back of her mind. Yes, whatever she's done for Ann, whatever she's prepared her for, is better, so much better than that.)

When she's finished, Ann turns around to look at her sister properly, not just in the mirror.

"Thank you," she says, hands just barely over hers.

Elsie knows she means for everything.

She wishes she had the words to respond.

_ix. _

She takes a week off, visits Joe on his farm.

He walks her through the house, ambles up the hill, pushes the barn door open. She had trained herself to walk with perfect posture, the way a proper servant does, but finds her shoulders curving under the presence of home. She feels small, vulnerable and soft.

The shadows slide to the right and she enters first. The gold on the floor is familiar; the ache in her wrist is new. She tries to breathe in, but there's no air to be found. Sharply, she turns back to Joe.

And he's standing there, calm and quiet, head tilted to the right. The ground is gold and the sky behind his head is gold and, when he smiles at her, his teeth shine too. She finds it in her to swallow. He reaches for her hand – and her eyes, for the briefest moment, dart to her wrist, checking it – and in response, her fingers curl around his, but nothing more. They sit in his grip, heavy and still. He draws her closer and her shoulder blades move into each other.

"Elsie," he says, tucking her head against his shoulder and wrapping his arms around her waist. Her shoulders are drawn up tight, harsh lines and angles, trying to make herself as small as she feels. He steers her slowly, as if they were dancing (though she's never danced so close to a man before). She finds her back pressed up against the door, his thumbs moving – up and down, slowly, carefully – her hips.

"Elsie." She looks at him when he says it and he rests his forehead against hers. She's gone numb, doesn't know what to say or do.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispers, kissing her cheek. "I'd never hurt you."

"You know that, don't you?"

She nods, urging her shoulders, her spine to relax against him. She moves slowly, her hands reaching down to rest over his.

"I'd never hurt you," he says. She can only nod a second time.

He kisses her cheek again, and then lower, closer to her lips.

He says, "May I?"

And she nods.

His lips meet hers and she feels his fingers tighten around her waist. He's kissing her, but she could never claim that she was kissing him; she's too still, limp.

Again, "May I?"

And when she nods, she feels his hands leave her, begin to bunch up her skirt, pull back and expose skin. The air is golden – but cold. His hands are rough, but warm.

It's only then he notices she's shaking – or maybe it's then she starts, exposed in the yellow light.

"Elsie?" He whispers, pulling back.

She trembles slightly, shakes her head.

The skirt falls back below her knees and his hands leave her waist, rest against her chin. She looks at him, she has to.

He's still smiling, "It's all right."

And then he hugs her close and she feels the sturdy weight of his shoulder, his hands at her waist once more. She closes her eyes, buries her face in his suit. Dust filters and flies in lazy circles around them, but she doesn't see it, doesn't feel it.

All she hears is his voice in her ear, over and over, "It's all right. It's all right. It's all right."

Like a drumbeat, but without any of the harsh edges.

_x. _

He's waiting for her. She knows he must be.

He waits by the door until it's her break. Waits in the village for her to pass. Waits for her nod to hold her hand. (Though, as the weeks pass, she finds a strange comfort in linking her arm with his. Slowly, she tames the tremour. _It's all right._) And he's waiting for her to want it, to be ready to want it, want him.

But she wonders if she's waiting for that moment as well.

Over dinner, Mr. Walters mentions his friend, a fellow butler in Yorkshire, is anticipating an opening for Head Housemaid.

"It's a very prestigious house," he says and then looks at her. It's an offer.

She could wait around here for Rose to leave –

"Their housekeeper is getting on in years too."

She could wait around here for Joe –

But the one thing she's never lost is her ambition.

She meets Mr. Walters' eyes, smiles. An unwritten letter of acceptance.

_xi. _

"Why Yorkshire?" Joe asks.

"It's a bigger house, a better position."

"Is it the position you want?"

She laughs a bit. No, of course not. She'd never want to be a housemaid forever. But Head Housemaid is closer to Housekeeper and Downton Abbey is closer to an easy retirement.

"Not forever, no."

"Let me offer you one then," he says.

And then he asks her to marry him.

"I don't – I haven't even been Downton yet, Joe. I don't know –"

"Take your time," his hand pats hers, "I'll wait."

He's always waiting.

_xii.  
><em>  
>Her sister walks her to the train.<p>

"We'll miss you," Anice says, hand just above her shoulder.

And Elsie nods, biting her lip furiously, "I'll miss you too."

"You'll visit, won't you?"

"When I have the time."

"I doubt you will," Ann is caught somewhere between laughing and crying, "barely have enough time for us now. What with you being the most dedicated housemaid in all of Lancashire. And now –" Ann grins wipes her eyes, "Now you'll be the greatest _head _housemaid in all of Yorkshire. Where will you find the time for your poor little sister?"

"I'll make it," Elsie promises, "if I can't find it."

They hug tentatively, both unsure where to start and where to end, before Elsie boards the train.

This time, her face hovers by the window. She watches her sister become a smudge and then a blur, watches the county that became home turn into nothing more than a dot of green. She watches everything get smaller and smaller and smaller – wonders if her feelings for it will shrink too.

But halfway through her trip, she turns her head forward.

There's something waiting for her in the horizon.

(She ignores, for the time being, the man waiting for her, lost in the blur of green and grey.)

* * *

><p><em>Ah, thank you all for your reviews so far! Gosh, I hope this chapter wasn't too boring. In the next one, we'll finally get into Donwton and I'll try to elaborate on a few of the moments I've caught in series one and two that have shaped my headcanon to include the events in the first chapter. So, yeah! Thanks so much for reading. <em>


	3. Yorkshire

_i. _

She isn't one to barge in uninvited, but she isn't one to stand out in the rain either.

She opens the door quietly, peeling her coat off, folding it carefully.

" – I'd like to give Lady Grantham a piece of _my _mind."

"I'd sooner punch her in the face. Better chance of getting through to her –"

They descend down the stairs, matching uniforms. Two maids with silent footsteps, but lightning voices.

"Are the maids here," she says, and the girls stop, turn to look down the hallway, "all so slanderous in nature?"

They stare at her, lips tight lines and eyes squinted; she wonders if they mean to be intimidating.

"Who are you?" One of them glares.

"Miss Hughes," her reply is quick (her first name unimportant), "the head housemaid."

_ii. _

She sees Charles Carson's shadow before his face. It stretches out, long and dark, over the floorboards and reminds her of another country, another man. But Mr. Carson's steps to do sway and he certainly knows better than to make a sound (after awhile that is, in the beginning he is terribly noisy). No, Charles Carson is like her – neither here to make friends. In effect, she shares her isolation with him. Him at one end of the table and her at the other, both with a book in hand or eyes on the wall. She doesn't laugh at most of the jokes and he doesn't make any; their moods compliment each other.

She thinks the rest of them a little wary of Mr. Carson, but she decides his company, what little she knows of it, isn't unpleasant.

_iii. _

She forgot about Lancashire.

It seemed only right that she would go there, seemed only right to tell him in person. But then she had forgot, not entirely.

"Miss Hughes," Mr. Carson had said after breakfast, "don't you have a train to catch?"

She should have left already, but the chauffeur has always been a reckless driver, so she makes it there in time.

And then the waiting. Waiting for the train to bring her back, waiting for it to stop, waiting for the time to pass.

When she gets off, however, and he is there – bright faced and full of smiles – she knows however long she's waited, he has been waiting thrice that – at least. She feels a lump in her throat; her fingers clench slightly, awkward and cold, as he takes her hand.

She waits until dinner to tell him.

He brings her home and she knows this is what she giving up. A house where she could lock all the doors, open all the windows, at a whim and not a command. A house where the furniture belonged to hers. Not a big house, not a grand estate, but certainly something practically-sized, something that could suit her. She is giving up sitting across from him every night, giving up a _family_. She's giving up farming too, giving it all up for her job. In the moments before the words leave her mouth, she wonders if it's the right choice.

But her work is her armour. Nothing can hurt her beneath it, the rules and the order. She is not helpless in service; no, instead, she flourishes. Her work is her armour and she dares not exposure whatever lies beneath it. (Most days, she pretends that girl doesn't exist, never existed to begin with. Most days, she doesn't have to think of it.)

"I can't, Joe," she says it before they eat. "I'm sorry, I can't."

He looks down at the food on his plate, says nothing at first.

"I'm doing very well in service. I _like _service," she finds herself mumbling, something she'd never do back at the estate.

"I'm sorry, I can't give it up, not now." _So I'm giving you up instead. _

(All the years he waited, all the time he stuck to her, didn't give her up. She looks at him from across the table. It's better this way; he'll find someone better for him, someone who won't leave him waiting.)

She goes to her sisters after dinner, doesn't intend to linger any longer.

_iv. _

Anice does her hair differently. She speaks the same though her voice is older, slower, her Scottish most faded. Out of her mouth, it's more of a ghost , so much so that Elsie wonders if Ann was ever in Scotland at all.

Whenever she sees Ann, the ritual is always the same. She checks her sister's arms from the corners of her eyes, studies her sister's face for lapses in symmetry. And then they go for tea. This time, she has it Ann's house. (Which is smaller than a farm, but the ceilings are higher and the rooms more cluttered. She wonders if she prefers this home to Joe's.) This time, Elsie pours the tea and Ann cradles the tiny boy, a few months old, in her arms.

When the child looks at her, she remembers exactly what she just gave up.

_v. _

As a housemaid, she only falls once.

She reaches too high dusting, loses her footing. All at once the vase in tumbling, the bookshelves are above her, her feet aren't touching the floor.

She catches the vase; Mr. Carson catches her.

Her body goes numb, freezes for a moment. Her heart sets into a panic, her eyes wide. She pries herself, vicious and sudden, from his grip, stumbles away. For his part, Charles Carson stands there, somewhat in shock.

"Is everything all right in here?" The housekeeper, Mrs. Irving, swoops in, a streak of black.

"Quite all right." Elsie Hughes dusts off her skirt, body still tense, movements sharp and jarring. "We all have our lapses in professionalism," she says, glaring at Mr. Carson.

It is the first time Charles Carson, mountain of a man, shrinks under the gaze of Elsie Hughes. (But it is not the last time.)

_vi. _

But Charles Carson is, on average, a man of great professionalism and meticulous perfectionism. He is promoted to butler swiftly. In response, the footmen offer to take him drinking. When he declines, the rest of the house goes anyway.

She sits at the table instead, book in hand. That is, until he sets down a glass in front of her.

"What's this?" She looks up at him.

"A peace offering."

"I wasn't aware we were feuding."

By way of explanation, he says, "I've decided I'd rather have you on my side than not."

"Do you think me an asset to this great house, then?" She knows Charles Carson, knows his silence. She knows of his pride and his devotion for the house, for the family. It's unparalleled by any of the other staff here, potentially by any other butler in all of Yorkshire.

She stares at the glass before her, the wine lazing inside it. She thinks of another man with a fondness for drinking and, studying Mr. Carson carefully, wonders if she has misjudged him. Her wrist burns. Could the hands that caught her hurt her?

She scolds herself, steadying her palm against the table. If he were anything like that, he would have gone to the pub, not stayed here. _It's only one glass_, she reminds herself.

"Ms. Hughes, I think you invaluable," and like everything else Charles Carson says, he means he wholly, says it honestly.

Their glasses clink; the taste of the wine is not unpleasant.

Charles Carson, she reminds herself, is not unpleasant either.

_vii. _

She is made housekeeper shortly after and, with it, gains two rooms of her own. It's not quite a house, but it is more than enough.

"Is everything to your liking, _Mrs. _Hughes?" Mr. Carson asks her later, knocking once on the door – _her _door – before entering. Mrs. Hughes. She wonders to whom, to what she is married to. The house? The life? It doesn't matter much.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," her eyes scan the room again, as if seeing it for the first time, "everything is _exactly _as I like it."

She smiles at him. _This _is what she truly wanted.

_viii._

Her new job comes with a ring of keys and she wears them as if they rivaled Lady Grantham's finery.

At night, she locks the door between the men's quarters and the women's. Perhaps, of all her jobs, this is the one she takes most seriously. She waits, every night, turns the key slowly, hears the lock snap.

The sound of safety.

_ix. _

They sit with each other in the evenings, go over rotas and dinners and garden parties. None of these things are for themselves, but for the Crawley family. (But then, if she did not have this, any of this, she doesn't know what she would do with herself. Marriage? On most days, she doesn't even think of the word.) She gets used to his company, doesn't mind it when the door shuts and it's just the two of them. The two of them and no way out. (But she knows Mr. Carson, knows he would never hurt her.) Their only intimacies are intimacies of thought, of two minds trained to be properly in sync, a perfect partnership. He likes to keep his distance, especially since the day she fell, as much as she does. It works, _they work _well together. And she gets used to the wine, learns to enjoys the taste of it.

They make jokes too, but only when they think none of the rest of the staff can hear.

_x. _

It surprises her one morning. The thought sneaks up on her from nowhere, but it doesn't shock her either.

She wakes up one morning and discovers she has one friend – a good friend, a best friend – and at least two children. Not hers, not in the way Anice's children are hers, but she knows the way the maids go about their day, their natures; she knows the footmen too, the serious ones from the soft.

She wakes up one morning: one friend, two rooms, and a handful of children. Around her hip, the keys jangle and shake, and she feels completely, entirely at home.

* * *

><p><em>I lied. I'll touch on season one and two in the next chapter instead. This one ended up getting away from me. Hopefully you like it as much as the previous ones. Your reviews have all been so appreciated - as always. <em>


	4. Downton

_i. _

But sometimes, old wounds resurface, break open.

_ii. _

Sometimes she thinks of another life.

The pantry walls recede; she constructs a farmhouse instead. There's the sound of birds, of children laughing, feet sliding across old floorboards. Everything is lit in a golden light and there are only positives like _I do_ and yes, yes, _yes. _

But then, bit by bit, year by year, the farmhouse, Joe, it all fades away. (It becomes a small cottage, a tea shop; Taylor's always going on about tea shops.)

Mr. Carson replaces him.

At first, the notion concerns her. But he is her coworker, her friend, her closest confidant. She starts all mornings and ends her nights with him – more or less. Of all the people in the world, she knows Charles Carson best. (And then she thinks of the pasts they both dodge around. The way his fingers clench when William plays on the piano, the way she still pulls away whenever his hands get too close. They know each other better than anyone else. They don't know each other at all.) Of all the people in world, she knows him best; it's only natural she would think of him.

When she asks him, "Do you ever wish you'd gone another way?" She knows something passes behind his eyes and she wonders, wonders what it could be.

He never answers.

_iii._

She never asks Ann that. They never talk of doubts or fears.

Because what they have now is better than what they had _then_. What they doubt now is nothing. What they fear now are only shadows.

_iv. _

When William gets distracted, quieter than usual, movements less confident, she asks him if he's homesick, assures him there's no shame in it. "It means you come from a happy home," she says, "there are plenty here who would envy that." Her wrists feel heavy and numb.

(She wishes, then, to grab the child's hands. To comfort him with touch and not words; but physical comfort is a stranger. The movements would be stiff and awkward – wrong in every way.)

She cannot make Downton a happy home, but she can make it a safe one.

_v. _

He rolls up his pant leg and there it is: metal teeth digging into skin, blood dripping down his leg.

She cries – just a bit. He did this to himself. She thinks of purple and black bracelets, hands pulling on hair, a drumbeat, the steady landscaping of a face (when eyes stop seeing and mountains rise and valleys fall until its all beyond recognition). _He did this to himself. _Suddenly, Mr. Bates is a very small man. A small man ambling around with his cane, limping and bleeding and not seeing, not understanding. She hears a woman crying in her mind and ends up crying with her. He did this to himself. (The question begs its way through her body, shivers and shouts, why – why would you ever do _this _to yourself? Doesn't he know?)

They wrestle it off his skin, leaving holes and gashes, a battlefield only time will repair. She thinks of the bullets, sunken deep though they no longer hurt, under her skin. The lines over her veins, connecting wrist to wrist, shoulder blade to spine. All the small threads that hold her together, all the small threads that broke ages ago. (And the people, golden hands – tucking hair and resting over her hips – that stitched her back together.)

"We all carry scars, Mr. Bates. Inside or out."

Just because she can't see them doesn't mean they no longer hurt.

_vi. _

When Joe writes to her (and only then does she realize how long its been), he speaks of Peter, of the farmhouse, of things she'll never have. (Or will she? She can't help but dream more vividly then, in the space between when he wrote and when he visits. The tea shop goes away, the cottage evaporates, the farmhouse rebuilds itself before her eyes.)

She meets him in front of a fire (but this time, there is no shadow-girl) and he offers her his arm. She takes it. Some old pieces clicking, some old fears evaporating. She knows him; she _trust _him. She takes his arm and wonders if she could get used to the feeling. (She finds, for better or for worse, she does not – entirely – mind it.)

He wins a doll, takes her out for dinner. It's just like before. She clutches the doll in one hand and he holds her other and she wonders if it was always this easy.

_vii.  
><em>  
>She turns in for the night, her dreams sick and full of fairground memories and human touch. But not before taking off her hat, her dress, her corset. Not before standing there, in one of two rooms that belong to her, listening to herself breathe. The light is off – there is no gold, no yellow, no red – and she can't see a thing. But she wonders, for the briefest of moments, what she would find if she lit a match. There's a line running through her skin -<p>

But is it under or over it, she wonders, and does it even make a difference?

(If a man stood behind her tonight, what would he think? What would he do?)

She pushes those thoughts away, fills her mind with music and laughter, with memories.

(Would she take her armour off for him?)

_viii. _

_Can you play piano_, she studies William's face (today his heart is not sick for home, but love), _in a farmhouse?_

ix.

She lets her hand slip out of Joe's, draws it back slowly, begins the long walk back to Downton.

It's just like before.

It's entirely different.

_She's _entirely different.

(She thinks of the things they could have had, she could have had. A house of her own. But then, isn't Downton? She has the keys to every room, can lock every door. The possessions aren't hers, the people aren't hers, but the house is. A child, a husband. She has neither, but when she walks back through the door – Anna rushing by and William after her and Mr. Carson coming down the stairs – maybe what she has is just as good. Different, but not entirely.)

_x. _

No, she knows she must be different. She wants different things, loves different things. She knows she must be different now, and yet –

"What would be the point of living if we didn't let life change us?"

She looks across the table, tries to smile at Mr. Carson. (Their eyes meet, staring out the corners, and she thinks of another time she walked with Joe and all the ways they looked at each other. She notices, then, how close her hand is to Mr. Carson's, how easy it would be –)

Life has changed her, it must have.

But inside, her scars sleep and she wonders how different she really is.

_xi. _

One best friend. Two rooms. Two, three, four children. At least ten keys. More glasses of wine than she could ever hope to count.

She doesn't regret a moment of it.

_xii._

The farmhouse, the cottage, the tea shop in her mind, it never looked like Ethel's. Things were cleaner, better. But then, she never broke a rule (if you break a rule, you get hurt). It's not the same.

Still, she comes, again and again. She holds little Charlie in her lap – if she had a child, a real child, of her own would he be anything like this? She can't say. She'll never be able to say; she tells herself it doesn't matter.

But she sits in Ethel's small house, trying to match blood with blood, bring the family together again. (They may be close, her and Ethel, but they are not family. Never that close.) In her excitement, Ethel grabs her hands. Elsie tenses, slips them out quickly, fluidly.

Too close for comfort.

_xiii. _

He's gasping for air, so she hurries to his side, grabs his arm.

She's never touched him before, not really. She feels walls breaking, but not completely. There's something natural about the movement, something that eases her touch. (She knows Mr. Carson; he trusts her and she trusts him.) She steadies him (and hasn't she done this time and time before – with words instead of fingers, glances instead of hands), lifts him to his feet.

For the briefest of seconds, his fingers glide over hers.

The touch barely registers, not until she has him in his bed and – later that evening – she is in hers. She holds her fingers above the lamp, studies her hand. Is anything different? Has anything changed?

Not even Ann touches her hands.

(But, as most things with Charles Carson are, it was not unpleasant.)

_xiv. _

She tries to quantify the last decade in numbers and words, but there's nothing to be said.

It's Christmas, it's New Year's, there's no war and no William and Mr. Bates is in jail. It's the end of the year and the beginning all at once and Anna is in her pantry, crying.

This could be the last time the girl stands here. (Elsie Hughes has seen Scotland and Lancashire, but she has never travelled over seas. She's never wanted to; never wanted Anna to. Haxby was too far for her; New York is a world away.) Anna is in her pantry crying and this could be the last time, the last chance –

There are a thousand things to say. There have always been a thousand things to say. Things she didn't because a glare would do, things she didn't because she didn't know how, things she didn't because it wouldn't be professional -

She holds Anna's arms, the last hesitation (walls are crumbling, things are breaking, but not the same things that broke before) and then – she hugs the girl close.

There are things she never learned to say because they could only be felt and not heard.

But now, today, for Anna, she tries.

_xv. _

Sometimes, old wounds break and there's nothing you can do to stop the bleeding.

* * *

><p><em>Augh. Also really iffy about this chapter, but I wanted to write something. I don't think I did this enough justice, but so far I've stayed in the realm of canon and plausibility. <em>_The moments I reference here did happen in season one and two and they're a few of the reasons I think a not-so-happy past for Elsie is very likely. (But I could probably ramble about it more effectively than this chapter.) Anyway, one more chapter to go and thank you so much for sticking around and reading. The next chapter will be better, I promise. _


	5. Home

_i. _

She stumbles into room, the letter crumpled in her hand.

Dead.

After the war, after the pain, after everything – dead. Her sister is dead.

She thinks of all the times she said she would visit. _I'll make time._ But where had the time gone? Somehow, it slipped out between the past two decades, slid away into nothingness. Where did the time go? She had written letters of course, but what good were they, really? She couldn't spell out the sound of laughter, the feeling of her sister's hand – always centimetres above hers. _I'll make time_, she had promised. From across the room, her reflection stares back at her. She barely recognizes the face. New lines and strands of grey. Where did the time go?

The letter falls from her hand and she stands there, in the centre of her pantry, the heart of everything she's worked for. Her hands are pressed against her lips, trying to keep her sobs in; her fingers shake violently, or maybe it's all of her. Her legs ache, but she can't stand to sit. If she sits, she'll fall and she falls – If she falls then she's useless, weak.

"Mrs. Hughes I was wondering if –" He doesn't knock. Of course he doesn't knock. They've gone years without knocking; she's sat in his bedroom, by his side. Of course he doesn't knock. (She should have, she thinks instantly, locked the door.)

"Can I help you, Mr. Carson?" She forces her voice to be steady, but cannot to the same for her limbs. And when she turns, fingers furiously trying to dry her eyes, she can't force her them to meet his either. He'll think her foolish. She endured a war, but cannot manage this. (But the war was far and this is close, so close.)

"Mrs. Hughes –"

He shuts the door behind him and she flinches, slightly. His palms pressed against the wood, he looks at her.

Suspended in motion, she begins to cry again.

His arms are hesitant; they pause on either side of her, not quite touching.

She sobs harder.

"I – I'm not going to hurt you," he whispers, his arms resting, slight and timid, around her. She wonders if he's speaking to her, the quivering child, or to himself, the dignified machine, or to the both of them – and all the rules that constrict them, consume them.

"_I know._"

She grabs at his suit, pushes herself closer. Her face digs into his chest and she cries – without beauty or grace or dignity. She cries until all the water has left her body, until she is dry and empty, hollow.

He only holds her tighter.

_ii. _

He doesn't move, not until her breathing has slowed, until the tears have eased themselves away.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," she mumbles, hands dabbing invisible tears. "I'm so sorry. I –"

She feels his fingers slide under her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes for the first time.

"_Elsie_."

He kisses her forehead then and she finds her body leaning in further.

And then he pulls back, looks at her. _May I?_

She nods; his lips find her cheek.

_May I? _

He's staring at her again and it reminds her of those walks with Joe, all those years ago. It reminds her of sideways glances and secret blushes, all the things she thought one could never say, never express from any other angle. But here he is in front of her – _May I?_

She kisses him then, presses her lips against his.

_Yes. _

_iii. _

They said nothing on the train. Neither has said a word yet.

But he stands by her as she lays her flowers down. Leaves shake and rattle in the wind and the rain starts, slow and soft, to fall.

He holds out the umbrella.

"Thank you," she says.

"Couldn't let you catch a cold."

"For coming, I mean."

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

She turns back to the grave. The water collects on the grass, slides off her flowers, pools along the sides of the tombstone. She sucks in a final breath, then pivots. Together, they descend down the hill.

"No, I knew you would."

Somewhere between the gates and the grave, her hand finds his and she holds it, tight. Her shoulders press against his arm; she rests her head against his side.

The rain falls harder; they step lighter – a drumbeat all their own.

_iv.  
><em>

On the way back, she falls asleep on his shoulder.

He helps her out of the car, opens the door for her.

Anna stands in the doorway.

"Welcome home, Mr. Carson," a smile, "Mrs. Carson."

And that's exactly what it is.

_Home._

* * *

><p><em>And now we deviate from canon, but for the better, I think. This also brings us to the end of this story and, hopefully, a pause on all the angst for now. Thanks for reading!<br>_


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